Starstruck
by rahleeyah
Summary: After the Albany scandal, the team returns to Havensworth. After everything they've been through, Harry will need all the help he can get to mend his relationship with Ruth. Just this once, the stars are on his side.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I am taking a brief respite from** _ **Galway Girl**_ **for this 2 (or possibly 3) chapter fic, which is a birthday present for the wonderful Marty Swale. I just wanted to say thank you; your friendship and support means the world to me. You're lovely, inside and out, and I hope you have a fantastic birthday. xoxo (xbox)**

* * *

On the Grid there was no sense of time and place. Buried as it was deep within the bowels of Thames House, there were no windows to let in the early morning sunshine or the late night glow of the city lights. Terror never slept, and nor did those intrepid souls who dedicated their lives to fighting it. Sunday or Tuesday, noon or midnight, it made no difference; every minute of every day the Grid bustled with life, as agents monitored surveillance feeds and desperately researched threats, came home to roost at the end of successful operations and kitted themselves out to step once more into the breach.

Such complete and utter disregard for the fallible human construct of time made maintaining relationships outside those walls that much harder for the people who called this place home. It was difficult enough, to keep the work secret; the struggle to explain long absences, inconsistent working hours, constant fatigue and, in some cases, scars and screaming nightmares, had been the downfall of many a romantic partnership. The turnover rate in Section D in particular was astronomical; agents entered the service, young and naive and full of boundless energy, and left just a few years later, twitchy and damaged and longing for simple human contact. Thus was the nature of the beast.

There were a few exceptions, as there always are, hardy souls who clung to their duty, no matter the cost. If death did not claim them, if their consciences remained undetonated, if the bitter truth of their lives did not shatter them to pieces, they remained long enough to enter the upper echelons. When their bodies grew too old for proper spying they settled themselves behind desks, carefully plotting and planning and trying their damnedest to keep the young agents under their care alive and well. Harry Pearce was one such a man.

He was a hard man, a rough and tumble youth who had grown into a weary, suspicious man. A soldier at heart, he loved his country, and he loved the people he served with, his brothers-in-arms. Their safety, their survival, was his paramount concern, but he had, on more than one occasion, been forced to make choices that resulted in the loss of life. Each one of those moments, etched on his heart, hardened him further, made him harder and harder to reach. There was no one better equipped to lead Section D than Harry Pearce, no one with more experience, no one with more grace under pressure, no one with a sterner moral code.

While this was not news to anyone within the Security Services, it might have come as a surprise to the pinch-faced men in Saville Row suits with whom he spent most of his time to learn that the true source of that man's unerring moral compass was not his own human heart, but a slight young woman with mousy brown hair and eyes so bright they put the stars themselves to shame.

Her name was Ruth Evershed, and Harry Pearce loved her with every piece of his soul.

She was an unassuming sort of figure; she took up very little space, and spoke in a soft voice. She dressed in dark colors, and had a tendency to fade into the wallpaper, never seeking attention or acclaim. Burdened by an astonishing intellect, her conversation often left her companions in the dust, and she had no personal connections of note. On the surface, she was as different from Harry Pearce as it was possible for a person to be, the feminine foil to his masculine ostentation. Perhaps it was strange, this yearning he felt for her, but a bond had been forged between them through fire and blood and grievous losses beyond counting.

On this particular night, buried beneath a mound of paperwork and nursing a glass of good scotch, Harry Pearce was ruminating on the mystery of Ruth Evershed, and everything she had come to mean to him during the many long years of their acquaintance. Death had haunted their steps, stolen their friends, taken her from him for a time, returned her to him glorious and distant in her grief. She had given up her life for his career, and he had traded his career for her life, and though there was not another soul on earth who knew him as she did, whom he trusted as he trusted her, she remained just out of his reach. He had kissed her once, long ago, in another life, when they were both of them younger, foolish enough to hope that the gentle blossom of love they had nurtured between them would survive the harsh winter of her exile. If he were being perfectly honest with himself, there was nothing he wanted so much as to kiss her again.

But Ruth was not a maiden to be rescued and despoiled and then locked away in a tower for a lifetime of pampering. She was not a timid doe to be tracked through a forest, laid low by an apple and the promise of tenderness. Ruth was a wolf, dressed as a lamb; there was a strength, a ferocity in her that he had never reckoned on, when first he'd brought her onto his team. It had been in his mind, at the time, to think she would not last out the year, that her gentle, quirky nature would quickly be snuffed out by the harshness of life on the Grid. He had been wrong, however; though she was not physically imposing, he had yet to encounter a foe who could outsmart her, had watched in awe as she stubbornly pursued her goals, unrelenting and determined.

 _The spaniel,_ Juliet had called her once. Harry had rather taken offense at Juliet likening the lovely Ruth to a dog, but even he had to admit that there was something endearing about her tenacity. And, like some canines, once Ruth sank her teeth into an enemy, she refused to let go until the job was finished.

 _That dogged, brilliant bitch,_ Nicholas Blake had called her once. Harry had most certainly taken offense at Blake's use of the word _bitch_ , but as the man was dying anyway, poisoned by Harry's own hand, Harry had not voiced his objection to that particular epithet.

The object of his musings was, at this very moment, seated at her own desk, working diligently away beneath the sterile blue lights of the Grid. Her dark hair fell in a smooth wave, obscuring the side of her face, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she dove through some mind-numbing bit of intelligence, looking for God in the details. Though the night's rota of agents were hard at work all around them, there was something rather special about this sitting together on the Grid in the evening. Their team usually worked during the daylight hours; Harry's job required his attendance at various meetings, and Ruth's intelligence was needed for the morning briefings. They had no more than a passing acquaintance with any of the people who surrounded them now, and there was a certain comfort to be found in that anonymity. No one the Grid at this moment in time knew their story, save for Harry and Ruth themselves. Or at least, they did not know it in its entirety. Harry was not so foolish as to think that the gossip of his personal life had not reached the night shift. Once, that gossip had sent Ruth running for the hills; _would it now?_ he wondered. She was older and wiser, and like him had seen the very worst of human nature, had learned, to her cost, just how fleeting life could be. Perhaps, given a second chance, she would not allow wagging tongues to stop her in pursuit of her heart's desire.

If, indeed, she desired him at all.

 _It was unfair of you to love me,_ he heard her voice echoing softly in the darkness of his office.

At the time, when she had spoken those words to him, Harry had felt as stunned as if she'd struck him, flabbergasted and hurt and lost all at once. He had not understood then what he understood now, and to his cost he had allowed that hurt to guide his steps away from her, thinking that she was better off without the burden of his heart.

But he had never given up on her completely, and when the psychiatric reports had come down in the wake of the Albany scandal Harry had used his high level security clearance and his own not inconsiderable personal charm to get his hands on the notes from his Senior Analyst's interview with the in-house shrink. The results had been eye-opening, to say the least; while the report stopped short of using the word _suicidal,_ it noted her chronic battle with depression and declared her to be in the throes of a monster case of survivor's guilt. The psychiatrist had recommended a month's leave, which Ruth had taken while Harry himself had been suspended, and upon her return had given her a clean bill of (mental) health. Clearly, the time away had helped her to put her troubles into perspective, but reading the notes the doctor had taken about Ruth's emotional distress had left Harry himself feeling powerless and weak. He knew, now, that she blamed herself for living when others had not, that when she had delivered that damning invective she had not been blaming him for loving her, but rather had been blaming him for saving her life at all. And how, in God's name, was he supposed to deal with that?

Harry was not particularly experienced at mending broken hearts; he was usually the one doing the breaking. His own hold on happiness was fleeting at best; how could he lift her out of despair? He did not know, and so he did not try, choosing instead to soldier on, maintaining the status quo and hoping that Ruth's holiday had been sufficient to do the dirty work of mending her disastrous emotional state.

As he watched her now, he could not help but wonder if perhaps what Ruth needed, more than anything else, was a shoulder to lean on, a friendly ear, the support of someone who understood what it was, to lose dear friends, to blame oneself for that loss. Perhaps what she needed was a cup of sweet tea, and the comfort of two strong arms to hold her while she slept. If that was the case, Harry felt that he himself was the man best equipped for the job.

Finishing his drink with a single fortifying sip Harry stepped out of his office, moving as nonchalantly as he could while still keeping an eye on Ruth all the while. He was heading straight for the kitchenette at the back of the Grid, bent on firing up the ancient kettle and making her a cup of tea, just the way he knew she liked it. It was in his mind to offer her this olive branch, to sit beside her and speak to her quietly and offer her a lift home, as he had done in the old days, when their relationship was just beginning and she was all crimson blushes and tentative smiles. The moment felt _right_ , as if the universe itself were whispering to him, _go to her._ And so he set out, moving silently and swiftly across his domain.

Alas, it was not to be; though his heart pounded excitedly in his chest, though his steps were light and unfaltering, he was intercepted by an anxious young agent before he could reach his destination, and by the time he had untangled himself Ruth had packed her things and departed. Harry sighed and returned to his desk, thinking dark thoughts about the futility of fate.

* * *

 **Two months later…**

Though there had been many times, across the intervening weeks, when Harry's restraint very nearly failed, when he very nearly dropped his guard and threw his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers in sheer exuberant desperation, he had not once come even close to speaking to her about their personal relationship. This was due in part to the operation at hand, a rather delicate investigation into a coalition of businesses that were suspected of funnelling money to terrorist cells in exchange for continued unrest and continued access to oil fields. Harry only barely understood it, truth be told; he had other things on his mind, and he had been downright befuddled when Dimitri Levendis and Erin Watts had requested that his entire primary team, himself and Ruth included, abscond to a hotel in the country for a weekend of espionage and heavy hors d'oeuvres.

Harry wasn't entirely sure why it was that his presence was necessary - something about Dimitri having already blown his cover, and their needing a figure with gravitas to pose as a potential new recruit for the cabal of blood thirsty capitalists. And when he discovered the location of their weekend getaway, his blood ran cold and his stomach clenched and his eyes of their own accord had sought Ruth out across the table.

 _Havensworth._

There was no one else at that table, he knew, who could possibly understand what that word meant to Harry and Ruth. What bothered him so was not just the death of a beautiful young patriot - Harry could still Adam's anguished cries echoing in his ears, could still the man kneeling, cradling her lifeless body in his arms. It wasn't just the memory of Ruth staring at him in a darkened corridor, her eyes brimming with desire while she shook her head and tore herself away from him. It wasn't just Ros, spewing invective at him, or Ruth's hand, gentle on his arm. It was all of these things, and more besides; it was the memory of what came after, the horror of Cotterdam, the sensation of having his very heart ripped from his chest and cast away upon the Thames. Those few weeks, between their precious dinner date and the anguish of Ruth's departure, had been etched into his skin, a tattoo of heartbreak and devastation. Nothing had been right, since that night at Havensworth.

And now they were going back.


	2. Chapter 2

_Havensworth._

Just the sound of the name sent a chill running down Ruth's spine, though she could not say whether it was fear or hope that inspired this visceral reaction.

It seemed a lifetime ago, those nights she'd spent in that place, unable to sleep as her thoughts were haunted by Harry, by the look in his eyes, by the yearning in her heart for him. _Was I ever that young?_ she wondered, as the memories danced feverishly through her mind. Ruth barely recognized that girl she had been before, so afraid to dream, so convinced that the longings of her heart were beyond her grasp. How different might things have been, she wondered, if she'd been a little braver? If she'd know the heartache that lay in store, would she have behaved any differently when confronted with Harry in that corridor? Would she have encountered Mick Maudsley at all, if she'd fallen into Harry's bed? In her mind's eye she saw him as he had been on that night, Harry in his shirtsleeves, the buttons at his collar undone, desire flashing in his dark eyes, prowling towards her…

 _Stop this_ , she told herself firmly, returning her attentions to the bank of monitors before her. They had set up their technical suite inside a large room on the second floor, and Ruth was ostensibly hard at work just now, observing the team's progress as Erin and Harry and Dimitri each pursued their agendas on the hotel grounds. Erin had stepped into the role that Ros had previously occupied, playing the somewhat obsequious gopher girl; Dimitri, whose cover had already been blown, was in the midst of a private chat with hotel security, far from the prying eyes of the guests; Harry was nursing a drink at the bar, having already ingratiated himself with the mark. Tariq had been left on the Grid to tend to the technical aspects of the operation - Malcolm's trusty Diaspora software had been given an upgrade, and was running like a dream - and Callum had just deserted Ruth, yawning and scratching his chest like a bear as he went. He'd spent the previous night installing the many cameras and microphones that bolstered the standard surveillance, and Ruth knew he was in need of sleep. In an hour or so, Ruth could seek her bed herself, once the rest of the team had settled in for the night.

And she didn't mind, really, spending the evening all alone, holed up in this room with her feet bare on the carpet and no one there to distract her from her meandering thoughts. The path she wandered now was long and tortuous, twisting and turning through memories and shattered dreams.

The last year had been one of upheaval, of grief and rage and loss and betrayal, and Ruth herself had been broken by it, had lost her sense of equilibrium, had lost her connection to her own soul. The mandated month's holiday she'd taken had helped her come to grips with her pain, to a certain extent; the long days and nights spent in a cosy cottage by the sea had helped her to realize how cruel she had been to Harry, accusing him of something she herself had not fully understood. _It was my turn, Harry...it was unfair of you to love me._

That day, that moment, standing in Harry's office, looking into the eyes of the man she loved more than anything in the world, Ruth had been so lost in her own crippling sorrow she had not realized the damage her words could cause. At the time, she'd barely even been thinking straight, so horrified was she by the thought that Albany - which she believed to be real - had been lost on her account. The sedative still oozing in her veins likely hadn't helped matters, and she'd spoken without thinking, the words spilling out of her unbidden, and no way to take them back. _It was unfair of you to love me…_

How could it be, she wondered, that the only time she allowed herself to acknowledge the feelings that bound her to Harry was the very moment when she broke his heart? How could she have flung his love for her into his face, cursed him for it? That love had kept her alive, had kept her persevering through the dark days of her exile, had given her a reason to get up in the morning, even after Jo's death, when it seemed to her that she did not have a single friend in all the world. That love had kept her strong when she was weak, had brought her peace when she was restless, had bandaged her wounded heart. That love, that quiet, unfaltering love, was everything to her. She longed, more than anything, to reach out to him, to beg his forgiveness, to cling to his hand and tell him _I didn't mean it, Harry, I was so lost, I didn't know what I was doing._

And yet she did not go to him in the still of the night, did not whisper the truth of her heart to him. In the year that followed Ros's death he had not pushed her, had not demanded that they speak of what had passed between them, had not apologized to her, had not even shouted at her, and damned her for a betrayer. He had been calm and kind, and he had been so distant; gone were the early morning chats, as they sat alone together in his office over steaming cups of tea, and gone too were the late night tete-a-tetes, those moments when he would whisper _let me take you home,_ and she would decline, though every part of her longed to give into his gentle insistence.

 _Just once,_ she told herself bitterly, _you could have said yes just once. And now he'll never ask again, and serves you right._

He had put his very dignity on the line for her, she knew. Offering himself to her, though she retreated, asking her to marry him. Declining his proposal at that time was the right thing, she knew; it would have done them no good to leap from almost-friends to husband-and-wife without first taking the time to consider what that might mean for them. It was the right thing, but done in the wrong way; she had been harsh to him, she could acknowledge that now. Once again, her mouth had run away with her, her intent lost beneath a wave of fear. And it seemed that he had finally surrendered, had finally been convinced that she was not to be swayed.

But she _wanted_ to be swayed. The holiday she'd taken had finally given her the time she needed to sort through her feelings, to give a name to her fears, to recognize that all was not lost. At the end of a month, she had returned to her post, convinced of two things; one, that her behavior towards Harry had been unduly harsh, and two, that she had acted that way because she loved him too deeply, and was afraid to admit it. The time had come, she felt, to say goodbye to fear, to embrace her own heart, to live her life. Finally, after so many years of running, she was ready. She wanted, more than anything, for him to ask her again. _Let me take you home, Ruth,_ or _marry me, Ruth;_ if he had come to her that very night, and asked either question, her answer would have been the same. _Yes._

 _Yes. Take me home, Harry. Not to that dingy little flat where all my things are stored in boxes, but to your home. Take me home, Harry, and let's eat a meal together, let me touch your hand, let me kiss your cheek, let me tell how I long for you._

 _Yes. I will marry you, Harry. Give us time, to adjust to one another, give me time, to find my own place in your life, and then give me your hand, and let us face this nightmare world together._

But he was not asking, anymore. Why should he? She had told him no, and he had no way of knowing the titanic shift her mind had undergone over the last few months.

As she pondered Harry, everything he meant to her, every word he'd ever said to her and every cruel thing they'd ever done to one another, her eyes sought him out on the monitors. She'd been lax in her surveillance; unbeknownst to her, Erin and Dimitri had both returned to their beds, and when she gazed at the feed from the bar her heart sank to see that Harry's barstool was empty. He was gone, then, off to bed, to rest up before returning to the operation fresh in the morning.

 _He deserves the chance to rest,_ she thought sadly, even as she continued to stare at that vacant barstool. _He works so hard._

Harry had given everything to this job, she knew. He'd lost his family, lost his friends, and more than once lost his way. There was no doubt in her mind that he had killed Nicholas Blake, just as she knew he had killed others, had quietly pushed aside his own humanity in the name of his righteous cause. No other man she'd ever known had possessed Harry's strength of character, his ability to do the right thing, the hard thing, in the face of intolerable pressure. It was one of many things she loved about him.

But Harry was lost to her now, wasn't he? She had pushed him away one too many times, and he had learned his lesson, and closed himself off from her. He would not offer her a lift home again.

 _Perhaps,_ she mused, chewing on the end of her pen, _the time has come for me to ask._

She wanted Harry, of that she had no doubt. What was less certain was whether or not he wanted _her_. Why should he, after everything that had transpired between them? She was no longer as young as she had been, no longer as soft, no longer as hopeful. She was just Ruth, cloaked in darkness, grief trailing behind her like a cloud; what man would wish to share his bed with such a walking ghost, with the memories of dead friends and murdered lovers and harsh words? What man would believe, after eight years of denial, that his beloved had finally come around to the idea of loving him in return?

Therein lay the crux of her problem. The thought of going to Harry, laying herself bare before him, pleading with him to give her another chance, was at once liberating and terrifying. It was high time she put aside her own pride, and approached him, instead of waiting for his gentle invitation, but the thought of abandoning her dignity only to be refused was mortifying. How much worse would their tenuous situation on the Grid become if such a thing were to occur? It didn't bear thinking about; should they face their almost-relationship head on, and declare for once and all that it was not meant to be, Ruth knew she could not continue coming into work and seeing him every day. She would have to leave, for the sake of her own sanity, but leaving meant never seeing him again, and that prospect was intolerable. Harry was the burning sun at the heart of her universe, and without him she feared her very life would be extinguished. Better to make due with what little she had been given, than to demand more and be left with nothing.

 _But what if he said yes?_

In the wake of George's death, hope had become a foreign concept to Ruth. She had hoped, when she met him, that her time on the run had come to an end. She had hoped that all would be well, that this quiet life would sustain her, that Nico would come to love her, that she would be happy. She had _hoped_ , and those hopes had died with George, the stunning echoing sound of a gunshot ringing in her ears even now, reminding her that everything she touched turned to ashes and ruins. If she did not hope, she could not be disappointed, and so for two long years now she had denied herself the solace of hope, for fear of what must surely come after. Or at least, she had until this night.

On this night, the stars were shining, winking through the window that loomed large behind her computer screens. As if drawn by some inconceivable force Ruth rose from her chair and crossed to that window, leaning up against the cool glass and staring up at the stars above. She picked out constellations one-by-one; she could not see them all, blinded as she was by the lights of the hotel, but she could see enough, and her mind knew the map of the heavens well enough to fill in the gaps left by her vision. Staring at the stars reminded her of so many things; reminded her of nights spent camping with her father, lying in the grass while his gentle voice told her the stories of the stars, of heroes and gods, victories and defeats, loves and losses. Reminded her of the vastness of the universe, of the inconsequence of two small people standing on one small planet. To the stars, a human life passed in an instant, so ancient and so constant were they. The stars did not care about terror, for what did they have to fear? Their own end? All things must die, even stars, but their lives were longer than most, and Ruth felt that surely they must welcome the brilliant blazing of their ending, as they shattered and burned and made themselves anew.

 _And they know a thing about love, those stars,_ she thought. Those stars, those bastions of luminosity that had stood through all the generations of human life had surely watched and wondered at the love that surrounded them, had surely stood witness to more coming-togethers and falling-aparts than Ruth's mind could even fathom. And perhaps, she thought with a timid smile, perhaps those stars still cheered, when love bloomed. Perhaps those lonely stars envied her, and this chance she had to know and be known, to share herself with another without tearing the very fabric of the universe asunder.

 _Go to him,_ the stars whispered. _You'll never know, if you don't ask. And even if the worst should come to pass, we will still be here, to guide you on your way._

Buoyed by a sudden, unfathomable sense of urgency Ruth turned away from the window and retrieved her mobile from the desk, ringing Tariq at once.

"Ruth?" he asked, his voice sleepy and concerned all at once.

"Everything's fine," she said quickly, stumbling over her words in her haste. "I'm just about to turn in, everything is quiet here. Before I go, though, I need you to do me a favor. Can you check and tell me where Harry is? I lost him on the monitor and I want to make sure he hasn't gone off on his own."

"Sure," Tariq answered. He did not even question her, she realized with a start; somewhere along the way she had gone from being the new girl, uninitiated and untrustworthy, to being the mother hen, the one to whom everyone turned in their doubt and their troubles. Truth be told, she rather liked it. She felt a certain fierce protectiveness for her team, and it made her proud, to think that she had come so far, that she had become one of the old guard. It had been a long time coming, but she had earned her stripes.

"He's in his room," Tariq told her after a moment.

"Great. Thanks, Tariq," she said, unable to hear her own voice over the pounding of her heart.

"Have a good night," he told her, but Ruth was not listening; she'd already ended the call. She stood for a moment, her feet glued to the floor, as she warred with herself. Harry was in his room, just down the hall, and it had not been so very long since he'd left the bar; no doubt he was not yet asleep. The rest of the hotel was quiet, and she could leave her mobile on the desk, could go to him with no one the wiser. _The timing will never be better,_ she told herself. Yes, they were in the middle of an operation, but the guests were unarmed - Callum had rifled through all their luggage during dinner - and they were here, back in this place that had held such promise, that had caused such grief. There were no prying eyes, no cameras, no gossiping team members looming over their shoulders. Tonight, now, there was just Harry and Ruth, and such a chance might never come her way again.

 _Go to him,_ the stars whispered.

Ruth place her mobile on the desk, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

 _I will,_ she answered.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This chapter is a beast, but it didn't seem fair to break it up into two parts. It's also M-Rated.**

* * *

It was so bloody _quiet;_ as Harry went through the motions of his evening routine he could not help but wish for some disturbance, some banging at his door, some emergency call on his mobile - he would even have settled for the blaring of music from next door, if only he could be given an excuse to leave the stifling, silent solitude of this room. Coming back to this place was its own sort of torture, and he'd spent the last half hour or so alone at the bar, sunk in his own kind of hell. Dark thoughts had been swirling through his mind, memories of the death of a bright young girl, the bitter, jaded recriminations of politicians whispering in his ear, the sight of Ruth, young and lovely and utterly beyond his grasp dancing in the darkness every time he closed his eyes.

He could not help but ask himself _why_ , why, after all this time, Ruth should remain lost to him. What had he done, that she would not share herself with him?

 _You proposed to her at a funeral, for a start,_ he reminded himself grimly. _Then there's that business with her husband and the boy._

Perhaps he could understand, given everything they'd endured in the two years since Ruth's return, why she was reticent where he was considered. He knew his own faults, kept better record of them than anyone else. The truth that eluded him now, however, was why she had not come to him before, before Albany, before Ros's funeral, before George's death, before Cotterdam. He thought he'd done rather a fine job, in those early days, of courting her, wooing her, giving her reason to believe that she would be safe, nestled within the circle of his arms. He'd been the perfect gentleman, had brought a smile to her lips, had given her - what he believed to be - thoughtful gifts. What more could he have done?

Most of the time, Harry was far too busy to indulge in such laments; whatever the state of his relationship with Ruth, the world spun madly on, and he had rather a lot of work to be getting on with. But here, now, alone in this place, once again feeling the delicious ache of having both a bed and Ruth close at hand yet somehow out of reach, he could not stop them. There had been a hundred times, over the last few months, when he had very nearly given in, very nearly driven himself to her home, planted himself on her doorstep, and refused to budge until she spoke to him. He had resisted the temptation, however, telling himself that she had made her feelings on the matter quite clear, and that further prodding from him would only be met with a wall of sullen opposition. He was trying to respect her rather obvious demand for space, when all he longed for was proximity.

And now he had that proximity in spades; it seemed that wherever he turned in this room he was confronted by the sight of the bed, neatly made, ready and waiting, for what he was not sure. He was continually reminded that Ruth stood in a room identical to this one, just a few steps down the hall, probably performing her own evening ablutions. Were her thoughts as consumed by him as his were of her?

 _Probably not. She'll probably lay down and sleep like a baby, because she, unlike you, has a firm grip on reality._

Chiding himself for the fickle nature of his own heart, for his own damned foolishness in remaining so utterly committed to the one woman in the world who had expressed no interest in pursuing any sort of relationship with him, he turned back the duvet on the bed and removed his shirt. He was in the act of reaching to turn out the lamp beside the bed when he heard the sound of a timid knock upon the door.

Only moments before he had been desperate for a distraction, and so it was that he did not think too long or too hard about what might possibly have merited such an interruption, so late in the evening. He was cautious as he approached the door, though, knowing that none of the cameras Callum had installed surveilled this particular stretch of hall - no doubt that had been done as a misguided sort of deference to his privacy - and he was not keen on getting into a scuffle beyond the eyes and ears of his team. He prowled slowly towards the door, his state of relative undress forgotten as he glanced through the spyhole, and found himself staring down at the very object of his musings, as if his pondering of her had conjured her on the spot.

* * *

When the door swung open before her, the entirety of Ruth's carefully prepared speech disappeared from her mind completely, exiting her body along with a quiet _whoosh_ of air as her entire consciousness funneled down to a single point. Harry stood on the other side of the door, clad only in his trousers. His hair was rucked up, just begging for her to reach out and smooth it with her hands. His eyes were soft and warm as he watched her silently, and his torso was bare, the broad expanse of his chest suddenly, deliciously on display. This was not something Ruth had counted on, and she found herself stunned into near insensibility by the sheer charisma of him, by the confident way he held himself, not shying from her or trying to hide his body from her sight.

His chest was scarred, she saw, his arms and shoulders, too, but these imperfections hardly registered at all, so consumed was she by the sudden desire to collapse into his arms, to press her lips to his neck, his shoulder, to the patch of skin just above his heart. He wasn't a particularly tall man, her Harry, but he loomed over her just now - in her haste to reach him she hadn't bothered to put on her shoes - and the breadth of his shoulders, the latent power of his bare arms, even the bullish, distinctly masculine curve of his belly all served to make him seem much larger than he normally appeared in his neat work suits. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his gaze travelling over her face, no doubt taking note of her interest in him. Her cheeks flushed scarlet, and she struggled to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

"I...er...that is, we...I just thought that…" she stumbled as all her careful preparations turned to naught. It had been quite some time, since Ruth had felt as bumbling and inadequate as she did in that moment. The time she'd spent on the run, the days she'd spent rebuilding her life in Cyprus, the horror of her return, had all served to harden her, to dim her more exuberant nature. For two years she had felt hardly more than a shell of her former self, her passion, her vitality lost beneath the tsunami of grief that had drowned her. On this night, however, she felt reckless, felt free, felt completely untethered by the cool cynicism that had colored her perspective for so long now. She felt... _young_ , felt rather as she had done on her first trip to Havensworth all those many years before.

"Perhaps we shouldn't have this conversation in the corridor, Ruth," Harry said, his voice low, the corner of his mouth ticked up in an expression that might have been bemusement, or might have been amusement, but whichever it was, he was not turning her away, and Ruth was grateful for it.

"Perhaps you're right," she murmured, and mustering every ounce of courage she possessed, she stepped into his room.

This was not what she had bargained for, in coming to see him this evening. She wanted to speak to him, wanted to share her doubts and her fears and her longing with him, but she had not anticipated the sight of him shirtless, or the tide of desire that threatened to sweep her away on the spot. But as the door closed behind her that desire ebbed somewhat, as she felt herself trapped, standing alone in a hotel room with Harry, watching the rise and fall of his naked chest as he breathed, all too aware of the bed behind her, the duvet turned down, the insinuation palpable in the air. The tension between them was thick, and she could think of no way to break it, no way to confront her feelings without risking her words, once again, taking her down the wrong path, leading her farther and farther from him.

It was one thing, to be sequestered with him in his office on the Grid, keenly aware of the personas they each adopted in that place, the proscribed behaviors that professionalism allowed. It was something else entirely to be confronted with the bald truth of their humanity, and all the mess that accompanied it. Something else entirely to stand with Harry the man, not Harry the Section Head, Harry the boss, Harry the spy. Harry the man was an unknown quantity, she realized with a start; she knew how he took his tea and his thoughts on opera, but she did not know which side of the bed he preferred, whether he cooked his own meals, whether he indulged in a bath at the end of a long day, whether he snored, did not know when was the last time he cut his toenails -

 _Oh for god's sake,_ she chided herself exasperatedly.

She did not know what he liked in bed, if in fact his inclinations in that department lined up with her own -

 _Get a grip, Ruth,_ she thought as he took a tentative step towards her.

She did not know if he liked to be in control of his relationships, if he was the sort of lover who would demand to know where she was at all hours -

 _As if that matters, you already spend most of your waking hours within his line of sight._

"Is everything all right, Ruth?" Harry asked her softly.

"I wanted to say that I'm sorry," she blurted out quickly, wringing her hands, unable to tear her eyes away from his face, from the gentle hope that had suddenly appeared there. Did he know, she wondered, what she was apologizing for? Could he look at her and see the truth of her, see her heart pounding in her chest, crying out for him? They had always understood one another, Harry and Ruth, even in the beginning, even when he looked at her like she might have been the strangest creature he had ever seen, they had always been able to read one another's thoughts. She hoped he could read her now, hoped she might be spared some long-winded explanation of her thoughts, her feelings, her motivations. She didn't deserve it, she knew; his dignity had taken a beating, over the years, and it was almost definitely her turn. Still, though, she hoped.

"You've nothing to apologize for her," he told her softly, still closing the difference between them.

* * *

Harry's heart was pounding madly in his chest; surely, he thought, he must be dreaming, that Ruth should appear to him, on this night, that she should come to him with her eyes full of longing, trained on his body, her lips whispering those gentle words, her every movement seeming to cry out with need of him, as his own heart begged for her. _She_ was apologizing to _him_ , which in itself was stunning; it seemed to him that she was not the one who had buggered up their every opportunity for closeness, but he was grateful for it, all the same. She was here, not running from him, though she twisted her hands together and her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of her declaration. With every step he drew closer to her, and she did not shy away.

It had taken a great deal of restraint, to stand before her half-clothed and not shy away, to not brush this moment aside for fear that he might ruin it. That restraint had paid off, as far as he was concerned, because she was still here, in this room, with him.

There were words that needed to be said, he knew. Though he longed to throw caution to the wind, to wrap her in his arms and kiss her senseless and staunch the flood of words that threatened to fall from her lips with his own fervent tongue, he knew that they could not proceed without first speaking the truth to one another. It was in his mind to declare his love for outright, then and there, but he resisted, thinking only of that day in the graveyard, when he had been foolish and brash and given too much of himself too soon. Better to pace himself, he knew, than to blow the entire operation to smithereens before it had even begun.

"I do, Harry," she told him softly, the sound of her voice, the sight of tears sparkling diamond-bright in the corners of her eyes drawing him up short. "I do have to apologize. You were selfless, you always have been, but I was so scared…" her voice trailed off as he took one last step towards her, entering her space, close enough to reach out and touch her, if he dared. Ordinarily when he drew this close to her Ruth retreated, awkward and comfortable and unwilling to stand in the moment with him. Now, though, she remained where she was, watching him with those eyes he longed to drown in.

"Was?" he asked her. The cord that bound them drew ever tighter, as the seconds ticked away, and the heat from his body washed out over her, the pair of them morphing, shifting, changing, becoming something else entirely in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

She hummed at him, a questioning little sound, her brow furrowing as she gazed up at him.

He had always taken her stature for granted, but in this moment there was no denying that she was small woman, in height and build, and to see her now, so vulnerable, so slight, thin arms wrapped tightly around her waist, inspired a wave of fierce protectiveness in him. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, to shield her from the terrors of the dark, to make her smile, make her happy for as long as he could.

"You said _I was so scared_ ," he told her. " _Was._ Which implies you are no longer."

She let out a shaky breath, her eyes skittering away from him, though her body swayed closer.

"I've had a lot of time to think," she answered in a careful sort of voice. "About what I want. About what I need."

"And what have you decided?" he asked. He could hardly believe his ears; they'd spent the better part of eight years dancing around one another, and it was only _now_ that Ruth felt she'd had enough time to think things through? Just how hard was she thinking? And for the love of God, how could he make her stop? In that moment, he made it his life's goal to help her stop thinking altogether, to help her to simply _be_ , to savor the moment, come what may.

"I decided," she started to speak, stopped, caught her lip between her teeth. Harry wanted, very much, to reach out and touch her, but he felt that everything he longed for, everything he'd ever dreamed, hung on her next words, and he would hear her say them, whatever they might be.

"I decided that the next time you ask me a question, I won't say no," she finished in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper.

He smiled; he couldn't help it. It was enough, he thought. He heard what she did not say, saw in the flutter of her eyelashes, the thundering of her pulse at the crook of her neck, in the flush of her cheeks, everything those words encapsulated, every offer he had ever extended to her, every rebuke she had given him in turn, and every question he could ask her in the future, every _yes_ she could ever speak to him, and it lifted his spirits enormously, bolstered his confidence in a way he had never anticipated. In that moment, Harry Pearce felt as if he were capable of anything, so long as this woman stood by his side.

"Ruth," he said softly, and, denying himself no longer, he reached out and cradled her cheek in his palm. She hummed, pressing herself against his hand, smiling, just a little, a beguiling, uncertain sort of smile.

"May I kiss you?"

He was not ordinarily the sort of man who asked that question; in his experience, asking rather killed the mood. In this particular instance, however, given what she'd just told him, it seemed the perfect place to start.

* * *

Much as she longed to answer him, Ruth found she could not speak, could not move, could hardly breathe. She could not quite believe that all of this was real, after all, that one brief apology should be sufficient to ease the ache of all the bitter moments that had come before this one.

 _He loves me,_ she realized with a start. Oh, she had always known, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Harry loved her, that he cared for her, that they were bound to one another, but it was not until this moment that the full impact of that reality finally hit home. Harry _loved_ her, and she loved him; he _wanted_ her, and she wanted him, and all it took, all it had ever taken, for them to come together, for them to share that love and that want and to ease one another's battered souls, was for her to say _yes._

By God, she was going to say it now.

"Yes, Harry," she breathed, her eyes trained on his face, watching the shine of his eyes in the glow of the lamp, watching the way his gentle smile smoothed his features, erased the doubt and the care that usually lingered there, left him looking younger and more sure of himself than she had ever seen him. It was high time that she said _yes_ , Ruth thought, if only she could see him smile at her like that every time she did. "Yes."

He used the hand still cradling her cheek to draw her in close to him, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes closing of their own accord as he brushed his lips against her own. The kiss was gentle, full of a sort of wonder, that they should have reached this point, that on a clear night they should find themselves standing together in the Havensworth hotel, close enough to breathe the same air, for once mercifully, miraculously on the same page. The tenderness did not last, however; the taste of him, the heat of him, the hardness of his broad chest pressing ever closer to her unleashed a hunger within her that would not be satisfied with one single kiss. Ruth was not ordinarily a particularly bold sort of woman; she always looked before she leaped, and when it came to romance, she much preferred to follow someone else's lead. But this was _Harry,_ and his shirt had already been discarded, and when she slid her hands around his neck and kissed him a second time he let loose a sound that was very nearly a growl and sucked her bottom lip between his teeth. They had been eight years in the making, and whatever they were to become, whatever lay in store, she was determined to say _yes_ to him every day, for the rest of her life.

Tentatively, she allowed her hands to wander, gently massaging the back of his neck, the edge of his hairline, venturing out to trace the broad expanse of his shoulders, marveling at the warmth of the skin beneath her fingertips, whimpering, just a little, when his tongue slid along the length of her own, the taste of him, the smell of him, overwhelming her, leaving her aching and desperate for more. Not content to be idle, Harry's hand began their own explorations, following the curve of her spine, encouraging her to arch gently into him, their every line and curve suddenly slotting into place, as if this what was their bodies had been meant for. The length of his thigh, exerting gentle pressure as it slipped between her own, the curve of his strong arms, sheltering her, providing her a safe place to rest, the scratch of the stubble on his cheek, delightful against her own soft skin; he was addictive, intoxicating, everything she'd ever dreamed, and more besides.

Though no doubt she would spend rather a lot of time thinking about this later, analyzing her motivations, agonizing over the choices she had made and whether or not this was the right thing to be doing in the middle of an operation, at the moment Ruth's rather reticent mind had all but shut down. There was only want, only need, only the desperate ache between her thighs and the heady, heavy feeling of Harry, kissing her for all he was worth, his soft, full lips, the gentle wash of his breath upon her cheek, the firm insistence of his tongue, his hands, his hardness pressed close against her hip. Ruth was powerless, in the face of her own dire need, and so she gave herself up to it completely, allowed herself to be washed away on a tide of desire and longing and fervent hope.

The need to breathe overwhelmed her, and so her kisses drifted away from Harry's mouth to the line of his jaw, her lips pressing up against the underside of his chin, unable to stop the smile that came to her when he hummed in satisfaction and drew her closer still, one hand reaching down to cup her bum, kneading the tender flesh, his ministrations rocking her against his hardness, lighting her up as the full implication of their proximity and their actions hit her square in the chest. The bed was _there,_ just there, close enough that she need only take a step or two and she'd be sprawled across it, wanton and ready and utterly vulnerable beneath his broad, strong hands. It seemed that Harry's thoughts had drifted along the same lines; he nudged her back, taking a single step before stopping short, his whole body tensing as he warred with himself.

 _Ask me, Harry,_ she thought desperately, the half-moons of her fingernails leaving indentations on his shoulders as she clung to him, begged him silently to take the leap, to take her, and all that she had to offer, now, before they buggered everything up once again.

"Ruth," he murmured, the rumble of his voice vibrating between them.

Once again her hands were moving, roving through his soft, sparse hair, tilting his head down so that he could gaze at her, so that she could watch the doubt and the uncertainty and the desperate hope that danced across his face.

"Yes, Harry," she answered in reply. This had been too long coming between them for them to deny it now, she knew. What they needed, more than anything, was to step forward, together. She could not shake the feeling that if they did not do this now, tonight, they would never have another chance, that the awkwardness which had so colored their interactions in previous weeks would return with a vengeance and they would drift apart from one another again. Ruth could not wait for another starlit night, could not hope for another chance as bright and as brilliant as this one. Their moment had come, and she was not shying away from him, this time.

He smiled at her softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine affection.

"You don't know what I was going to ask," he said, his fingertips tracing the curve of her cheeks as her own had done once, that morning by the Thames a lifetime ago.

"It doesn't matter," she sighed, her eyes closing in deference to the sheer bliss of the moment. "The answer is yes."

"Good," he breathed, and then he was kissing her again, the fire between them burning brighter, as everything else faded into dust and ashes.

* * *

If it had not been for the sheer glorious heat of her, Harry would not have been entirely convinced that any of this was real. There had been so many moments, before tonight, when he had been overcome by longing for her, had very nearly gone to her and demanded the closeness she now gave without hesitation, yet always he had faltered. That she should come to _him,_ that she should so ignore his foibles and his fumbling words, that _she_ should be the one brave enough to push them to this point, seemed a gift beyond price. There was a dreamlike quality to this night, to the tenderness of her caresses, to the golden glow of the starlight on her skin, and Harry was determined not to squander it, determined to revel in her, to bind her to him in a way he had never truly allowed himself to hope for. Given the opportunity he knew that he could please her, that he could make constellations dance behind her eyes, that he could make her feel the depth of his regard for her, that they could together carve out a new life for themselves, one in which they were together, as they always should have been, in every sense of the word.

And she had said _yes._ Whatever it meant, wherever they might go from here, Harry was determined to take that _yes_ , and make the most of it.

With one more step they collapsed onto the bed together, Ruth letting out a breathless, slightly nervous sound of surprise as Harry came to rest over her, his thigh pressed hard to the cleft between her legs, his eyes gazing down on her in wonder. She was beautiful, this love of his; her eyes were bright and brilliantly blue, her cheekbones high and sharp, her hair dark and soft, her hands small and delicate and tracing the lines of his face with infinite tenderness. He allowed himself the indulgence of staring at her in unabashed hunger, following the soft swell of her breast, the shallow dip of her waist, the tapered curve of her hip.

It was in his mind to tell her that he loved her, but as he watched her, suspended in this single moment, the deep breath before the dive, he realized those words were utterly unnecessary. She would not be here, if she did not know that he loved her. He had done everything in his power to show that love to her, and it seemed that she had finally seen it, finally acknowledged it, finally decided to answer that love with her own, and he was satisfied with this, with her. It was enough to have her here. The words would come later.

Once again he kissed her, his hands tracing down her sides until he clutched her hips, encouraged her to grind against him as he gathered the flowing fabric of her skirt and drew it up, exposing the pale whiteness of her thighs to his hungry gaze. And though she had always been shy, skittish as a deer when it came to their personal relationship, she did not retreat from him now. She gave a gentle moan, tilting her head back, exposing the delicate column of her throat as she gave into his hands and the insistence of her own body, her hips undulating against him as she moved with infinite grace, limitless beauty beneath him.

The bed was soft, but Ruth was softer, her body yielding beneath him, allowing him a comfortable place to rest, sheltered inside the lines and curves of her. He was thanking his lucky stars, just then, that she had come to him, that she had found him half-naked and longing for her, that the sight of his bare chest had not sent her running from the room, but had instead sent her running into his arms. It made this whole thing easier, somehow, that he should already be mostly bare beneath her hands, those hands that seemed unable to part from his skin, leaving a path of burning fire in their wake. But fair was fair, and he was not about to let the inequity of their dress stand.

There was no self-consciousness in him, when he reached between them to gather the hem of her blouse in his hands. He was not trembling, was not doubting himself. Harry knew what it took, to make a woman come undone beneath his hands, and he knew _this_ woman, knew her as well as he knew himself, and so he was not afraid. He was not concerned that he would disappoint her; any apprehension he might have felt, as regarded his body and her response to it, had been dispelled the moment she had first taken in the sight of him, and licked her lips, and lost all control of her words. She wanted him, he was sure, and he knew that he could make it worth her while, could reward her trust with pleasure beyond reckoning.

For her part Ruth did not balk, as he eased her shirt up and off her body; she raised her arms above her head, giving a little shimmy to free herself from it, smiling at him when he tossed it over the edge of the bed and returned his attentions to her. Always before Harry been forced to make due with no more than mere imaginings of her, and even these he had limited, as guilt chipped away at him, as he chastised himself for wondering what she looked like beneath her long flowing skirts and soft blouses. He had never really allowed himself the indulgence of truly investigating her humanity, of seeing her, not just as the goddess of his longings but as a woman, flesh and blood, perfect in her imperfections, but he was not denying himself now. Beneath him she was radiant; her attire had always been rather demure, hiding the true shape of her, draping luscious curves in innumerable folds and pleats of fabric, tantalizingly out of reach. Now, however, there was no barrier between him and the truth of her body, and he reveled in it. Her breasts were larger than he'd imagined, soft and round and firm, encased in a simple, cream colored bra, no doubt chosen for comfort over scintillation. Her stomach was soft, the muscles beneath the skin jumping in delight when he dragged his fingertips down the valley between her ribs.

 _You're beautiful,_ he thought, but the words would not pass his lips; his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth as he gazed at her in awe, and besides, he told himself, perhaps she would not believe him, if he told her when he was lust-drunk and devouring her hungrily with his gaze. Perhaps the impact would be all the greater if he told her after, if he gathered her into his arms and whispered his love for her into her hair, reassuring her in the bliss of the aftermath.

In order for there to be an _after_ , however, he would need to get a move on, and so he did not linger; the roiling of her hips beneath him was insistent, her eyes closed in bliss, and so he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss against her forehead before reaching beneath her to unclasp her bra, and free her from it.

She sighed happily when that task was done, and Harry nearly groaned aloud, to have the dusky pink of her nipples revealed to him at last. He could deny himself no longer, and without a second thought he lowered himself towards her, enveloping the peak of her left breast in his lips while she hummed happily beneath him, shuddering when he sucked the tender bud of her nipple between his teeth. He couldn't get enough of her, the salty taste of her skin, the sweet lilting sound of her sighs. She was glorious, truly, and he was utterly enraptured, lost inside her. As he continued to kiss and nip and suck at her breasts, each new move from him met by an equally arduous reaction from her, her hands took on a life of their own, running down his back, stretching to reach his bum, pulling him into her, her hips bucking against his thigh with ever-increasing insistence. She began to gasp, and the rhythm of her movements took an almost primal turn; dimly he marveled at that, that she should have such a strong reaction to him, to his mouth, to the hard muscle of his thigh providing just enough friction to send her spiraling beyond the usual bounds of her restraint into the glorious, uninhibited pursuit of her own pleasure. He was glad to see it; with each tremble of her body beneath him his cock grew harder, throbbing with want of her, and he ground himself forward against her even as his lips tightened their hold on her tender skin. She gave a gasp, and for a single, crystalline instant all her movement ceased, and then she broke, whimpering, shuddering, her legs locked tight around his own as she came beneath him.

This rather visceral response to his attentions bolstered Harry's pride; she was gasping and blushing beneath him, and he was almost paralyzed with want of her.

"You're amazing," he told her softly, watching as that blush grew ever brighter, as she gazed up at him from hooded eyes, her expression uncertain and faintly embarrassed. She was breathing too heavily to reply, and in truth he felt his comments required no retort. He only kissed her, tasting her need of him on her tongue, wondering what heights they might achieve together, given the fact that they were, to his mind, off to a rather bloody good start.

As her breathing slowed the pace of Harry's ministrations continued; he could not stop himself from reaching between them, dragging the tips of his fingers gently against her soaking knickers, watching her carefully as her breath caught in her throat and her eyelids fluttered closed, his name slipping past her lips in a whispered plea.

And who was he to deny her? They had made it this far, and she was writhing on his bed, her soft folds already dripping. The time for holding one another at arm's length had long since passed, and now there was only this, only them, only the stars winking through the window and the brilliant fire that threatened to consume them, to burn them to ashes and rebuild them into something better, something stronger, something infinitely more beautiful than what they had been before this night, smoothing their jagged edges, fitting their broken pieces back into place.

Deftly his fingers bypassed the barrier of her knickers so that he could stroke her folds, tracing the shape of her, learning where and how to touch her as he gauged her reaction by the play of expressions across her lovely face. Her hands, which had previously been delighting in their exploration of him, rose up as she braced herself against the headboard, thrusting down against his seeking fingers, helping him without words to discover the secrets she had long kept hidden from him. The gentle rocking of her movements reminded Harry of a boat at sea, rising and falling with the waves, infinitely graceful and infinitely lovely. Still her knickers and the bunched fabric of her skirt hid her from his view, but Harry would not be content with blind exploration; he leaned up, dragged his lips along her jawline for a moment because he could, because he wanted to, because she had said _yes_ , and then he returned his attentions to removing the rest of her clothes. What he wanted, more than anything, was her, all of her, every bit, _now_.

Ruth kept her hands pressed firmly to the bed, lifting her hips to allow him better access to her skirt, and he removed it along with her knickers with one gentle tug, dropping them both to rest atop her discarded blouse before returning his attentions to his lover's body. With tender hands he encouraged her to plant one foot on the mattress, bending her knee and opening herself up to him and his scrutiny; still she blushed, but she did not run from him, remaining frozen in place beneath him as she watched him, watching her.

Already he had felt her, hot and wet and swollen for him, and he knew that he could very easily sink himself into her now, grind against her until all coherent thought was lost and all that remained was love and lust and light. He hesitated, however, feeling keenly the importance of this moment, the necessity of, not just doing the deed, but doing it correctly, of taking the opportunity to lavish her with every gift in his arsenal. They would have other chances, he knew, would come together again (and again, and again), but there would never be another opportunity for this, this first time, this discovery of who they would be together, and he was determined not to squander it.

With some wriggling and a bout of giggles from Ruth he shimmied down the bed, resting his head against her thigh as once more his fingers resumed their exploration of her, dipping inside her, curving slightly, his whole body tense and listening, watching, learning her.

"Christ, Harry," she gasped, as with a particularly potent curl of his fingers he made her tense and tremble and sigh. He carried on, relentless, leaning forward to join his tongue to his hand, reveling in her gasps and quiet moans. He stroked her with his tongue, thrust into her with his fingers, inhaled her scent and with his body held her in place, his weight pressing down against her straining thigh, pushing her, encouraging her, drawing her ever closer to the point of no return.

On he moved, only increasing his speed as her moans turned to whimpers turned to a sound almost like a whine, and once again he watched as the ecstasy broke over her in waves, as her back arched, as she threw her head back against the pillows, her body pressed to tight to his and the expression of rapture that painted her features burned into his eyes, never to be forgotten. She was glorious in her abandon, and he was anxious to join her. But not yet.

Slowly he sidled back up the bed, his trousers painfully tight against his rock-hard cock, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched her, his fingers still drawing patterns in the wetness between her thighs. As he drew level with her face once more he was momentarily afraid; beneath him, Ruth was weeping, silent tears leaking out from the corners of her eyes to run in sparkling rivers down her cheeks. With his clean hand he reached out and wiped them away, kissing her softly.

"All right?" he asked her tentatively, truly terrified as he considered what her response might be.

She gave a wet, choked sort of laugh, curling into him, her leg sliding over his hip as the dampness between her thighs began to soak into his trousers.

"Much better than all right," she breathed, pressing a kiss to the notch in his collarbone.

"Then why…" he started to ask her, faltering as she gazed up at him, still crying, and yet still smiling.

She did not answer him; instead she drew him down to her, kissing him hard, teeth and tongues clashing as her free hand reached between them, intent on the zip of his trousers. He was all too eager to help her; he wasn't sure he could wait another moment, lest her proximity cause him to spontaneously combust on the spot. She understood though; she always did.

Removing his clothes was a much more cumbersome affair than stripping her had been, but it was well worth the fumbling, when his cock finally sprang free, relieved to no longer be restricted, and her eyes and hands descended on him all at once, bringing a groan of desperation to his lips as he acquiesced to her unspoken demands and flopped onto his back, laying himself open to her. It was his turn, then, to endure his lover's scrutiny and the blissful ministrations of her hands, and Harry could not have been happier.

She pressed against his side, her legs once more entwined with his own, her hand gently massaging his shaft, tracing the path from the base of him, nestled in sparse curls, to the tip, already damp with need of her. As she moved she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, an expression of deepest concentration on her face, and he smiled to see it, to watch her so engrossed in him, and what she was doing to him. It was wholly unnecessary; he was harder than he could ever remember being in his life, and he knew that she was wet and ready for him. They had no need of further preparation, and yet she persisted, apparently as enchanted by him as he had been by her, and it touched something deep in his heart, spoke to the softest piece of him, that she should give him such attention, such affection, simply because she wanted to.

Still, though, he could not allow her hands to wander over him forever; he had wanted this, wanted _her_ for so very long that just the brush of her skin against his own was nearly enough to bring him to the brink. He did not want that, did not want to come until he was finally, blissfully sheathed inside her, and so he reached down, and removed her hands - and the temptation - from his body.

"Ruth," he murmured her name, shocked at how easy it was, to lie here beside her, to be naked and yet feel, not vulnerable, but strong, indestructible, so long as she continued to look at him that way.

"Yes, Harry," she told him with an impish smile, and before he could say another word she shifted, rising up to straddle his hips, gently grasping his cock in one hand, gliding him against her folds and drawing hopeless, mewling sounds from the pair of them.

 _Christ,_ but he wanted her, and to finally see that she was as invested in this, in them, as he was, delighted him beyond his own ability to comprehend. He was not merely happy, he was elated, ecstatic, in danger of flying apart completely from the sheer exhilaration of the moment. He would not last long, he knew, but suddenly he did not care. All that mattered was Ruth, the brush of her skin against his own, one hand flat on his chest for support, the other guiding him ever nearer to her heat. She looked down at him, and as she did their gazes locked, and everything around them faded away into nothingness. He caught her hips in his hands, and gave her a tiny nod.

She smiled, and positioned him at her entrance, sinking down onto him slowly, ever so slowly, taking him inside her with a soft, satisfied moan.

He wanted to swear, wanted to expel the tension that had coiled up deep inside his body with a fervent burst of sound, but he could barely breathe, so painfully delirious was the feeling of her, wrapped around him. With his hands still locked around her hips he encouraged her to rise up before bringing her down again, the sound of her whimpers echoing in his ears as he slid that much deeper inside her.

"Ruth," he gasped as she did it again, coming down with a bit more force this time, the friction between them exquisite and still somehow not enough.

"Yes, Harry," she answered him again, and when she rose up this time, he did not wait for her to move slowly down again; he thrust up into her, hard, even as he brought her down upon him, and the feeling of him plunging into her brought forth such a sound as he had never heard from her before, and the next thing he knew she was riding him in earnest, each downward thrust of her hips met by his own upward movement, the force between them increasing exponentially with each passing second. She moaned and gasped and whimpered, tightening reflexively around him, and his world funneled down to a single point, so that all he knew was this, the heat of her, the smell of her, the wet sound of his cock ramming into her, harder, and harder, and faster, and faster, until finally neither of them could bear it any longer.

He looped his arm around her back and drew her suddenly down, pressing her flat against his chest as she buried her face into the crook of his neck, her lips moving in soundless, desperate whimpers as beneath her he thrust up once, twice, three times more, and finally she gave way, the quivering of her inner walls drawing him deeper and deeper until he could hold off no more, and surrendered to her, emptying himself inside her with a groan that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul.

With his arm still around her, his cock still inside her he held her there, gasping and breathless and overjoyed to think that they had made it this far, that they had somehow achieved the unthinkable, and come together at last. That it should have happened here, of all places, seemed somehow _right,_ seemed as if they had stepped back in time to correct the wrongs of their younger selves, as if they had paid penance with their bodies for the sins of their past.

Around him her sex still spasmed delightfully, and the feel of her tightening around him caused his spent cock to twitch, drawing from her lips a breathless laugh.

" _Jesus,_ Harry," she said softly, her face still nestled tight against his skin.

Still he held her, his hands roving endlessly over her back, fascinated by the softness of her skin and the hardness of the bone beneath.

"I love you," he told her softly.

Perhaps it was foolish, to say that now, when their hearts were still thundering in their chests and he was still ensconced inside her, but he could not stop himself, and he found he did not want to. He did love her, had loved her for years, and what they had just shared had only served to reinforce the bond between them. He could not allow another moment to pass without speaking the truth of his heart to her, without telling her that he never wanted to spend another moment apart from her.

"I love you, too," she answered, shifting slightly so that he finally slid free from her, and she could support herself on her hands so that her face loomed just above his, open and shining with pleasure, with hope, with genuine happiness of a sort he could not recall having ever seen there before.

"Good," he said, somewhat lamely. "That's good."

* * *

The sound of Harry's mobile ringing shrilly in the darkness dragged him back into wakefulness. Muttering unintelligibly he disentangled himself from Ruth, who had wrapped herself around him like a sloth on a log while they slept. His hand scrabbled across the small bedside table until finally his fingers closed around the offending device, and with a sigh he lowered himself back onto the bed as answered, "what?"

Beside him Ruth was stirring; she flung one arm across his chest and pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder before resting her head there, and though he could not see her face he could feel her eyes upon him, and he smiled despite himself.

"Sorry, Harry, I know it's early," Tariq said on the other side of the phone.

"What is it?" Harry grumbled. This was supposed to be a simple operation; whatever could have gone wrong at - he checked the digital clock beside the bed - four in the morning, it certainly wasn't good, and he was in no mood to leave his lover's embrace.

"I'm worried about Ruth. She told me she was going to bed hours ago, but according to Diaspora her mobile is still in the technical suite."

She'd left her mobile behind so that she could come to him in privacy, he realized, feeling a surge of affection for her. It was a reckless thing to have done, to have gone off comms in the middle of the operation, but it spoke to the depth of her desire for him, and as such he could not blame her for it. If anything, it only made him love her more.

"Ruth is fine, Tariq," he said in his most authoritative voice. At the sound of her name she lifted her head, frowning at him slightly. "I'm sure she just forgot it. You know how she can be."

He pressed a kiss against her furrowed brow to reassure her, hoping the sound would not filter through to Tariq.

"But-"

"Tariq. I'm telling you, Ruth is fine."

There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line, as if the full implications of Harry's words were finally sinking in. It was in his mind to be concerned about how Ruth might feel about this development, but that was a worry for another time. Right now, he just needed to end this call, and then he could draw Ruth back into his arms, and they could worry about the rest of it in the morning.

"Oh," Tariq said. "Right. Sorry. Have a good night."

Harry didn't dignify this with a response, choosing instead to end the call abruptly.

"What was that about?" Ruth asked him as he deposited his mobile on the table once more. Harry turned to her, wrapping her in his arms, trembling slightly when her bare thigh brushed against his cock beneath the sheets.

"Tariq was worried you'd fallen asleep in the technical suite," he answered.

"Bugger," Ruth muttered, blushing delightfully.

Harry chuckled, running his hands up and down her back to warm her, to calm her, to reassure himself. She was real, she was here, and she was not running from him. Not yet, anyway.

"Does it…" he sighed, cleared his throat, started again. "Are you worried about what people might say?" he asked her tentatively. Harry recalled all too well what Ruth had done the last time people had been gossiping about them, and the thought of losing her now, after the rather earth-shattering revelation that had been their last few hours together, was untenable.

Ruth shifted slightly, gazing up at him with adoration in her eyes. "Harry," she said seriously. "There is absolutely nothing they could say about us now that they haven't said already. At least this time, it's true."

He wasn't entirely sure what to say that, and so he said nothing, choosing instead to kiss her lips and snuggle back beneath the duvet with her in his arms. This was right, this was where she belonged, and he was so bloody grateful to have her here with him that he decided not to think too long or too hard about what came next. Right now, all that mattered was the present, and as far as he was concerned, the present was a beautiful thing.


End file.
